


Love is the shadow that ripens the harvest

by glossary



Category: Jupiter Ascending (2015)
Genre: Cunnilingus, Domestic, F/F, F/M, Fake Science, Fluff, Light Dom/sub, Masturbation, Polyamory, Sassy Kiza, Sexual Tension, Space rollerblading, Xeno
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-23
Updated: 2015-03-23
Packaged: 2018-03-19 04:23:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3596208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glossary/pseuds/glossary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is Kiza two days ago: golden-haired, wild-hearted, on her own. This is Kiza now: flushed red with wanting and hurting everywhere with the longing for belonging like a second shadow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love is the shadow that ripens the harvest

**Author's Note:**

> my favourite character in this film had a total of four lines. yeah.  
> the second chapter will contain kiza/jupiter/caine. although kiza and caine are close, they don't have sex - in homestuck slang, they have a pale romance.

“Suppose I wanted to get my own space rollerblades,” says Her Majesty when Kiza answers the phone. She’s outside, tending her favourite plants—the delicate flowers that require of a tender touch and constant vigilance to bloom properly— and her phone is smeared with dirt from her clumsy fumbling when she’d seen the number.

“Hold on,” says Kiza, walking towards the shed. “I’ve got to go someplace quiet for this – Dad freaks out when he thinks I’m behaving like a black market dealer.”

“Oh, you do this often?” asks Her Majesty with a great deal of interest in her voice.

 “Not anymore,” says Kiza meaningfully.

“Gotcha.”

When she’s more or less hidden, Kiza says, “Alright.” She leans against a metal box full of old gardening tools. The shed smells like rust and dirt, which is familiar no matter the planet you’re on. “If I may ask…” she hesitates. “What brought this on, Your Majesty?”

There is silence – long enough that a faint knot of worry twists itself in Kiza’s stomach. She had just turned eleven when her father had been exiled to Earth: old enough to know what she was leaving behind, and young enough that adapting herself to the peculiar customs and aged technology hadn’t been too hard. The complicated mess of feelings that the member of a House can arouse in her – she doesn’t think that will ever stop. It lingers, like a deep-rooted tree, like a charming woman’s perfume.

But Jupiter only says, in a bemused tone, “They’re _space rollerblades._ ”

 “Understood,” says Kiza, solemn. “I need you to come over to take your measure. They’re custom-made.”

“I know,” says Her Majesty, grumpy. “I tried wearing Caine’s but they felt weird. When can I drop by?”

Kiza digs her bare toes into the dirt. “Whenever,” she says, heart at her throat. “Whenever you can, Your Majesty.”

“Call me Jupiter,” says Her Majesty, and hangs up.

Kiza looks at her hands. They’re trembling ever-so-slightly. She cleans her phone screen with her tee and wanders out of the shed. Dad’s casually examining the fields in the distance, squinting into the sun. Kiza bites back a sigh.

“I wasn’t doing a deal,” she says kindly. “I was doing phone sex.”

Her dad pretends to look relieved. “Oh well,” he says. “In _that_ case.”

“I’m pretty good,” Kiza says as she walks up to him. He smells like sweat and tiredness and an indescribable contentedness that probably comes from having his wings clicking lazily behind him. “I learnt by watching porn.”

“No wonder you’re hardly getting calls, then,” says Dad, shaking his head. “You’ve got to put your heart into it.”

“Don’t be condescending,” says Kiza, frowning. “Some of those women work really hard at faking orgasms.”

He smiles at her like he can’t help it. It’s his _I’m so proud of you_ look. Kiza stares him down until he quits it, and they stay out there for a while, watching their fields and their bees, which as far as Kiza’s dad is concerned is everything a person should want out of life. Kiza tries to hold onto that quiet feeling while she makes dinner and thinks about space rollerblades and Jupiter Jones, which more or less make her feel about the same: wobbly and excited. Dad eats in between breaks of tinkering with some broken down piece of crap that was probably junk even when it worked properly, so Kiza lies on the couch and stuffs her face with homemade burritos while watching TV.

She falls asleep and it sneaks into her dreams:

being nine years old and watching wide-eyed the parade a House had thrown when they’d found the Recurrence of its founding member – the matriarch had gathered the tiny baby in her arms, mouth painted blue and predatory, sparks falling from her dress as if she had tamed the universe itself to make a gown out of a shooting star;

arriving to Earth for the first time and trying to pretend she couldn’t hear the hurt sounds her Dad made when she tried to give him a hug and her clumsy hand brushed his back, trying to pretend she wasn’t scared of this world where they’d stay forever until she was old and grey and the sky eternally out of her reach, trying to pretend she wasn’t half-gone with longing;

bringing boys from town to the fields to find out what they had inside their trousers that was so interesting and then bringing girls and discovering she enjoyed that a whole lot more, kisses like stars going supernova inside her mouth and that softness that sparked electric when Kiza touched them _just right_ —

Jupiter’s wide dark-eyes, those long lashes like the wings of a bird and the quiet buzz of Kiza’s bones – bees are genetically designed to recognise royalty and Kiza’s got a quarter of the blood (Dad said he couldn’t ever figure out what Mum was and she didn’t know either), she replays the scene again and again – coming out to the porch and watching Dad and Caine beat the crap out of each other because deep space is not the most nurturing of environments and they don’t know how to look at each other and say _I care about your state of well-being_ (Kiza does: she reads; plus she arrived at Earth when there was that boom of TV shows aimed at developing the understanding and acceptance of feelings), the sun bright in her eyes and the low-thrum of pain like the shadow of her own heartbeat, and a lean woman with a certain sleepiness in her expression that only made her more attractive – her mouth dry as she says _hello I’m Kiza_ – the hot hand that gripped hers – _Kiza… Kiza!_

“I’m awake!” she yells as she sits up. She’s still on the couch – there’s some old as balls rock coming out of the kitchen, and the clink of metal – Dad hasn’t slept again, been messing about the whole night. _Jesus_ , Kiza thinks tiredly out of habit, _give an old man his wings and he thinks he’s hot young shit again_.

“Get the door!” Dad yells back.

Typical. “Can’t _you_ get the door?” Where the hell are her shoes? After a few more seconds looking, Kiza gives up and goes to check who’s visiting because Dad hasn’t even bothered answering. Of course, it’s Jupiter standing outside – looking chipper and deliciously lovely with her long dark hair down, wearing a pair of cut-offs that make her legs look fantastic. “Hey,” says Kiza, trying to flatten her hair, “come in. Dad’s in the kitchen doing his rugged mechanic thing.”

“My cousin Vladie tries that sometimes,” says Jupiter, cheerfully walking in. Kiza tries to ignore the sway of her hips. “It’s laughable.” She peeks into the kitchen. “Hello, Stinger!”

“Your Majesty,” says Dad, lowering the music. “I apologise – if I’d known –”

Jupiter waves a hand. “No, no, it’s fine – really – Kiza and I are just going to hang out for a while, alright?”

Kiza smirks at him over Jupiter’s shoulder. “Alright?” she echoes.

“Of course,” says Dad, looking deeply suspicious but also like he’d never ever dare tell Her Majesty what to do.

“Great,” says Jupiter, and turning around, links her arm with Kiza’s. Her skin smells clean and nice – like healthy human and lemon soap – and Kiza tries her best to walk normally as she leads Jupiter towards her room, where Dad won’t interrupt for fear of listening to gross girl talk and finding out she’s got a crush on one of his drinking buddies (which Kiza doesn’t, because all of Dad’s drinking buddies are _just like him_ and that’s – no).

Her room’s her favourite place in the house after her garden – it’s got a wide window and a bed with a fat mattress, a thick comforter and about a million pillows where Kiza can practise her lounging technique. Unselfconscious, Jupiter toes off her shoes – barely breaking stride – and throws herself at Kiza’s bed. Her hair spreads over the pale sheets as she yawns, exposing the vulnerable line of her throat.

Kiza thinks: _Seriously?_

“So,” says Jupiter, straightening, “how’re we going to do this?”

“This part’s easy,” says Kiza unsteadily. “I’ve just got to – here –” Best to not say anything else and just work if she’s going to babble like an idiot, she tells herself, and kneels down at Jupiter’s feet to reach under the bed for her toolbox. Jupiter’s ankle brushes Kiza’s shoulder, but neither of them moves, and then Kiza’s got it and she moves away and nobody says anything, which… is fine. Kiza takes out the measuring tape (there is, indeed, a fancy space gadget for this task but Kiza’s used to working with Earth rubbish), and grabs Jupiter’s hind foot, fingers curling around the delicate anklebone. Her toenails are painted dark blue, like the night ocean.

There’s rustling on the bed, and then Jupiter’s sitting properly, watching Kiza work passively. Her mouth looks red and plush, her lashes lowered, and her breathing fills the room – or maybe sucks out all the air – because Kiza’s sure as hell having quite a bit of trouble inhaling. Her bones feel hot with want. This, she thinks, is perhaps the worst – to have permission to touch Jupiter and to be unable to touch her where Kiza wants – in the dark moments between one blink and the next Kiza thinks about letting her hand creep upwards, about hooking her fingers under Jupiter’s knee and pushing her legs open to kiss the secret hollow of her body, graze Jupiter’s navel with a worshipful hand—

Kiza switches to the other foot. (Doesn’t need to _write it down_ , of course.) She wonders how often Caine kneels before Jupiter. Thinks of the puppy eyes and the raw longing of his hands trying to catch the air where Jupiter’s walked, and doesn’t need to wonder for long.

“I like your room,” says Jupiter eventually, her voice hushed despite Dad’s loud music preventing any accidental eavesdropping. Kiza glances up to see her head turned away, staring out the open window to let in the fresh air and the bees, which hover near Jupiter in dizzy circles. _I know how you feel_ , Kiza thinks.

“Thanks,” she says instead. “We’ve been here practically since we arrived. Before that we moved around a lot… This is home, really.” Before Jupiter has the chance to ask any questions, Kiza lets her go and sits on her heels. “Done,” she declares, satisfied. “I’d give it about a week or two – I can call you when they’re ready, I guess?”

“Really?” Jupiter smiles. “Thank you, Kiza. Hey, I know I’m asking a lot already, but…”

“Yeah?” Kiza pushes the measuring tape into the toolbox and hides it under her bed again, leaning forward. When she straightens Jupiter looks away, as if she’d – as if she’d been watching – but why would that happen?

“Well, I’ve got to practise,” says Jupiter sheepishly. “And – it’s really open here, and I was wondering…”

“Yeah, no problem,” says Kiza, because it’s not like she’s going to say _no_ or whatever. “I could – teach you?” she offers. “I mean, it’s not like I’ve got anything better to do,” she lies wryly, thinking about all the stuff she does, in fact, have to do. “Unless you want Caine to…”

“Oh! No. No, it’s okay,” says Jupiter, earnest. “Caine… he’s not here, I mean he left Earth a few days ago. He’s coming back, though,” she adds hastily, as if anyone could doubt that.

Nobody would abandon a lover like Jupiter, that’s for sure.

“Is he,” says Kiza, curious. She arches an eyebrow.

Jupiter tilts her head to take her hair out of her face, flustered. “Yeah, yeah he is,” she says, and there’s something almost shy about her sweet affection – the fondness so obvious it makes Kiza uncomfortable (books only take you so far, she guesses, but still – _theoretically_ , she knows more than her dad). “He’s with the Aegis, doing some stuff… apparently I’ve got like this huge house just because I’m, um… you know,” and she waves her hand in a chaotic motion that somehow Kiza understands perfectly.

“Because you belong to a House,” Kiza finishes the sentence, and nods. “No surprise there – the Abraxas family probably can bathe in their own money.”

Jupiter makes a face. “Bathe in… money, yeah…” Clears her throat. “Anyway, now that Balem’s dead more crap’s come up and… I need like this Guard, apparently – that’s Guard with a capital G,” Jupiter clarifies, looking at Kiza as if she can’t believe what she’s saying. “And Caine said he’d choose it because I’d just pick the ones who wouldn’t glare at me.”

“But what if all of them glared?” Kiza asks, amused.

“Exactly!” Jupiter exclaims, triumphant. “So I thought we could hang out, or… I mean, if you like? It’s just weird now, to talk to my friends when I can’t talk to them about – well, I’m sure you understand.”

Kiza does. It’s why she doesn’t have any close friends – not the kinds you read about, the sort that storm the Ministry with you on invisible death horses – because there’ll always be a part of herself that remains unknown to them: an eternal _you had to be there_ sort of thing. Space is impossible to explain –the feeling of freedom and loneliness and the hundreds of thousands of million cultures that exist, that have existed, the horrors and the beauty. Kiza’s spent more time on Earth that she’s spent on space but she knows that she still belongs up there because when she looks up at Jupiter Jones, the reincarnation of the great Seraphi Abraxas, awe floods her. She wants to stay on her knees and kiss Jupiter’s hands and pray for luck and passion.

“Yeah,” she says, quiet. “Of course I do.”

Jupiter flashes her a smile, and stands up to leave – her hand brushes the nape of Kiza’s neck and a jolt of heat like a lightning bolt shakes her. “Don’t mind me,” says Jupiter, “I’ll just see myself out, okay? See you soon, Kiza –” But she’s already scrambling to open her shorts and slip a hand into her knickers, which are wet with want. Her flesh’s all swollen and – Kiza swallows, imagines – a pink cunt – shakily she gets up and lies on the bed, face-down, breathing hard and fast. Her pillows smell like Jupiter, Jupiter whom she can hear down the stairs – the door opening and closing – Kiza slides two fingers up her pussy, almost angrily, opens her mouth and bites the bedding. Her face feels hot and tight – the muscles of her legs protest the abuse, she was weak for so long (doesn’t like to think about her illness) that her body is still half disbelieving about her wholeness. She rocks against her own hand. There’s no finesse to it, no slow exploration – Kiza closes her eyes and imagines that instead of sodden fabric inside her mouth it’s Jupiter she’s suckling with a wet sound like a little girl taking a lollipop out of her mouth—

She knows exactly why the Houses endure time, why they reign a thousand galaxies uncontested – there’s something golden and savage about them, cruel in its unashamed bareness, and the bit of wildness inside her wants to be conquered… Kiza inhales: lemon and woman.  Comes – just like that – so intense that it _hurts_ , her guts twist with it and she keeps rocking until it becomes a sensation on the edge of pain, trying to breathe with lungs that are collapsing inwards like a dying star. Kiza’s body goes pink like a flower field blooming for the queen of spring.

Turning her head feels like the hardest thing she’s ever done – she doesn’t even have the energy to take her hand out of her shorts. The blanket’s wet with saliva and it sticks to her cheek. There’s something broken inside herself, she thinks, she’s a rotting tree that’s been scraped hollow – a sick girl whose cure was bestowed upon her by the grace of a god – and she tries, she _tries_ to gather the shattered pieces of herself into golden-haired, snarky Kiza but all she can see when she looks at herself is someone who kneels before Jupiter and says _tear me apart again_.

* * *

Kiza starts the conversation like this: “Don’t freak out.”

Dad, who’s trying to make pasta and fix an old projector simultaneously, immediately turns around to give her his best suspicious face. “Did you kill anyone?”

“No,” Kiza says. “And anyway, if I had—”

Dad looks pained. “Kiza—”

“—which by the way I _haven’t_ ,” not lately, “I’d take care of it on my own. Thanks for the vote of confidence, Dad.”

“No problem,” Dad says, grumpily stirring the pasta. How can someone look grumpy while wearing an apron with tiny bees and sunflowers, Kiza will never know, but he manages splendidly. “I bought a book on parenting when your mum told me she was pregnant. I know what I’m doing.”

“Did you actually read it?” Kiza asks, curious.

“Let’s not be hasty,” Dad says sternly. “I was young back then. What’s wrong, sweetheart?” His eyes harden. “Do I need to take out the guns?”

Trigger happy maniac. She feels a rush of fondness. “I’m not the one with a bunch of ex-Legionaries friends, Dad. People hardly ever want to kill me.”

Dad snorts and peers at the sauce with his tough soldier expression, which is also his dubious expression. He thinks she’s kidding, which is just the way Kiza likes it. She sits at the kitchen table, unceremoniously knocks the projector aside, and rests her chin on laced hands. Decides to just go for it – there’s no way to make it painless. “Jupiter—”

There’s a loud clanking sound as he fumbles with the pot, but his voice’s even if a bit strained as he says: “Yeah?”

“I’m going to be helping her out for a while,” says Kiza carefully. “She wants to learn to – um – I think she calls it space rollerblading—”

“I’m aware,” says Dad. His voice is painfully serene – a tranquil pond of deep waters, covered in a sheen of green moss: a place where humans do not rule.

“I think it’s great,” Kiza says, cool as a cucumber. Maybe he learnt his tricks in space and he’s been in a million battles or whatever, but Kiza’s his daughter and when she was twelve and broke her arm, he’s the one who cried all the way to the hospital. “And since we’ve got such a big backyard, I thought we’d practise here. That’s fine, right?”

Dad stirs twice, neat precise movements. The line of his shoulders is deceptively relaxed. “Of course, sweetheart.”

“You should turn off the stove,” Kiza says kindly. “I think it’s ready.”

They eat together. This happens as often as it doesn’t – normally Kiza would walk out and leave Dad so he could have alone time with the projector, but since she’s feeling nice (and absolutely not guilty) she stays, makes a few mean jokes and a few nice ones, and afterwards she helps him out. They forget to move the plates to the sink before really getting into it and one of them falls off and breaks, which wouldn’t be so bad because they’re cheap anyway (this happens a lot in the Apini household) – except that Kiza’s barefoot – of course – and accidentally steps onto a piece of broken porcelain. The kitchen smells like blood – like splice blood, unspeakably sweet and unusually thick (wouldn’t do to have an investment die too quickly).

Kiza’s startled yelp of pain is out of her mouth before she can stop herself, and Dad moves blurringly fast to her side, gathers her up like a princess and deposits her on the couch in the living room. He looks at her bleeding foot like it’s the worst enemy of humankind.

“I’m fine,” Kiza says, low and sweet. Her Dad nods once, sharp and firm, and goes to get the first aid kit.

Mostly Kiza misses space except when she doesn’t. The travelling’s nice, and some friendships are dearly missed – but this is her home, this solitary house where bees are reigning queen and no window is ever closed. Still, when Dad takes out the can of ReCode and sprays her wound liberally, Kiza’s reality is broken by the jarring truth: this isn’t all there is, and this peacefulness isn’t the only thing Kiza loves in life. It’s unbecoming, she thinks as she goes to bed; it’s unbecoming for someone like Kiza Apini to be afraid of her own wanting. However intense her passions are, they can be mastered. She’s not an animal, only a savage girl whose heart sometimes kicks like a wild horse running away.

She’s not worried, though. Closes her eyes. The bees buzz a lullaby, the most comforting sound in the universe. It’s not like she’s the first girl ever to—

“No,” Kiza says out loud two weeks later. The thought’s trying to sneak into her head again, and instead of shoving it into the void – an endeavour destined to be unsuccessful if there ever was one – she concentrates on the sky, which is turning into a delicate shade of lilac like an old maid’s reluctant blush. Sure enough, after five more minutes she hears the rumble of a car, the slam of a door and then Jupiter is there: impossibly lovely, prettily petite (those graceful hands, like quick birds) – and the wide dark eyes, sparkling with enthusiasm. Her hair’s up and Kiza can see her throat, her shoulders shockingly bare in a tank top. The bees go crazy, and so does Kiza.

“Kiza!” Jupiter calls, as if Kiza’s bones aren’t buzzing with the sort of awareness people usually reserve for guns. “Hello!”

“Hey,” Kiza says pleasantly, getting up and stretching languorously. “Glad you could make it.”

“Are you kidding?” Jupiter asks, excited beyond belief if the flutter of her hands are anything to go by. “Oh my god, I wouldn’t miss this for anything. You’ve got them, right? They’re ready?”

So this is what crack dealers feel like. “Of course I’ve got them.” Nods towards the open door and walks inside, knowing Jupiter will follow. Sure enough, Kiza hears her stumble in the dimly lit corridor, the deepening shadows tricking the eye – but they make it to the kitchen without anyone breaking anything, so she’s considering it a success. On the (meticulously clean) table there’s a dark box which Kiza opens with little fanfare. Jupiter’s boots are inside: big, shiny, and vaguely threatening.

“Hello there,” Jupiter purrs, and Kiza’s wild horse of a heart kicks her in the throat and desire makes her hands curl, coils hot in her stomach. Despairing, she wonders: _Why is my life like this_?

“Hope you like them,” she says, and her voice’s only a little rough.

“I love them,” Jupiter coos, gleeful. Gathers the boots in slim arms and presses them against her bosom – it does something amazing to her cleavage, and Kiza politely looks away… only to see her Dad standing in the doorway, face lined and serious, that little furrow between his brows that means he’s thinking hard about how to solve a problem when shooting it until it stops twitching isn’t an option.

“Majesty,” he says, sober. Jupiter grins at him, and Kiza bites her lip. “Kiza’s told me about – just be careful, alright?”

Kiza tries to say _GO TO YOUR ROOM_ without moving a single facial muscle. Jupiter seems a bit bemused, lashes lowering in that way that means she knows they’re not telling her everything – so wordlessly Kiza picks up her own scuffed boots from under the table and slips them on. “We’ll be fine, Dad,” she says – only it comes out softer than she’s meant to, less bratty kid and more reassuring daughter.

 _Ugh_ , Kiza thinks as she and Jupiter march to the backyard, _feelings_.

Outside the sunset’s dead and the sky is a light grey colour that darkens slowly to give way to full-blown night: an inky wave that spreads, inexorable, unbroken. Sometimes Kiza dislikes having to drive forty-five minutes to the nearest town but then she comes out at night and gazes at the stars that seem so close it makes you dream you could reach out and pluck them like flowers, hide them in your pocket like jewels meant for a beloved, and she doesn’t mind so much. While Kiza stands out like a tiny fire, pale-skinned girlishness, Jupiter melts into darkness – Kiza sees the glint of her teeth when she smiles, and then there’s only the sound of her sure footsteps as they walk away from the house.

It’s been quite a long time, Kiza suddenly remembers, since they’ve met – when Jupiter was a confused young woman who didn’t know herself. Now there’s a certainty and a hopefulness about her – the dew of true youth on the loveliest of stars; a dash of freshness that Nectar can’t imitate. Everything changes – nothing stays the same forever – and Jupiter is a revolution. Changes hurt, Kiza supposes, and wonders if she should be more worried about that. Wonders if she should learn to dislike Jupiter.

To be quite brutally honest Kiza’s pretty sure she could get off on almost anything Jupiter does. _Now that’s another thought to kill_ , she decides wryly.

Kiza stops when they’re sufficiently away that nothing but barely tamed nature surrounds them. She looks at Jupiter as she kicks to activate the boots – they light with a cool blue glow. “Here’s fine, I guess,” she says, and Jupiter imitates her. She’s got no doubt that Caine’s gone over all the security stuff – Kiza thinks of them as guidelines more than anything because, well, rules are cute – so she skips all that and grabs Jupiter’s hands. They hover closer, and Kiza’s stomach goes squishy when she sees Jupiter’s smile: an unashamedly happy gesture, a sincerity and openness not often seen in someone of her station. “This is really easy,” says Kiza softly, utterly enamoured and too turned on to try and ignore it. “To go up you’ve got to keep moving, alright? I’ll stay close, just in case… but I’m not worried.”

She’s right not to worry. Jupiter’s a sight for sore eyes.

There’s no fear in her. She knows what’s it like to fall, knows there’s someone watching over her and, maybe subconsciously, knows a splice – particularly the lone ones, like Caine or Kiza and Kiza’s Dad – wouldn’t ever, in a thousand million years, betray her. They hunger for a place to belong and here comes Her Majesty Jupiter, settled into her own bones and impossibly attractive, kind in her rule. It’s like a dream come true. Kiza slows down after a while, hovering near a tree while Jupiter tries increasingly reckless pirouettes, and imagines a world without this: delight on the edge of innocence. She can (it looks a lot like a woman with a blue-painted mouth holding a baby with the right set of genes), and Kiza doesn’t think it’d be worth living.

It tastes like a violent kiss, the knowledge that she’s fallen in love. Kiza knows it happens different for humans – that they do it slowly, a moment after another gathering to knit a single thread of affection – and still can’t imagine it any other way than this, a branch suddenly snapping in a winter forest, breaking the silence with an insolence that lasts a blink. One moment she’s trying to divine the cause of her fascination with Jupiter’s knees and the next her legs go weak. Somehow she manages to end up sitting on her own heels instead of falling on her ass (Dad’s voice murmurs at the back of her mind: _you’ve got to learn how to take a fall, sweetheart_ and she did, she did).

“This is the best day of my life,” Jupiter whoops, and does a little spin around a branch that awakens a small troop of fireflies – they mark her wake like a comet’s tail.

“No kidding,” Kiza says, shaky. This merits food – Kiza slides back to the house and cuts open a pale green melon with a gleaming knife bigger than her forearm. Since it seems like it might be too healthy, she squirts a generous amount of chocolate sauce on top. She has to squeeze twice because her hands are trembling so much, but once that’s out of the way she figures if she’s made it this far then she can’t wimp out now. Inhales. Exhales.

Jupiter’s waiting for her, sitting on the cool grass – barefoot, eyes closed. She perks up when Kiza drops at her side – her hands are eager on the fruit, and she bites carelessly. Juice trickles down her chin. Kiza’s had way too many fantasies about that wet mouth to be able to hold coherent thoughts, so when Jupiter speaks it takes her by surprise.

“Is Stinger mad at me?”

That straightforwardness. Kiza almost smiles. “No. Why do you think that?”

“Well, I’m not stupid,” Jupiter says, and licks her own fingers. Kiza eats another piece of melon. A lock of her loosely braided hair sticks to her cheek. “I mean I try not to be. Maybe I’m just not good at guessing how half-whatever boys feel?”

This is probably true because if Jupiter knew how Kiza feels about her she sure as fuck wouldn’t be licking her own fingers. “He’s not angry,” Kiza says again, and trails off, unsure of how to continue. “He’s just… I mean, it’s kinda hard to explain…”

Jupiter’s eyes are fixed on Kiza, her attention a small burning sun. Kiza’s weak resolve gives up. Anyway, she’s never been big on the whole _keep her safe through the power of IGNORANCE_ , she knows Captain Tsing had a severe talk with Dad on that subject (Kiza’s own words of advice for him were a single sentence: don’t ever fucking do that again), and she’s not goint to start going against her own belief and behave like an imbecile just because she’s in love. So she’s got a heart boner, big freaking deal. Kiza frowns into the darkness, and when her words come out they’re stilted, slightly unsure.

But they do come. “He’s just worried, because…” Because he’d always known exactly what someone like Jupiter would do to Kiza? “Because I’m a second-generation splice and… you don’t understand what that means but I really have got very little in common with humans.”

Jupiter laughs, fond and warm. “I’ve heard something like that before.” She sounds deeply amused. “Please explain.”

Kiza ponders how to best say it. Condensing several millenniums of history into a single paragraph is hard to do, but she gives it her best try. “Splices – we’re not just different from humans because we’re physically stronger. That’s a given, breeders compete about it, trying to find the perfect balance between animal and human…” She takes a deep breath, remembers Dad’s kind voice, telling her about it for the first time, why she was different – why she couldn’t play with the human children, the ones who wore clean clothes and had bright eyes born out of innocence – eyes like Kiza hadn’t ever seen before. “First generation splices have an easier time… interacting with normal humans. They’re the ones that Houses use as servants – they can grasp body language, understand the importance of tone of voice and stuff like that. A lot of breeders make their splices sterile, so that when they die the whole thing just… ends there.”

Jupiter’s hand finds hers – grass tickles Kiza’s palm – and grips it tight. She leans closer and the whole heated line of Jupiter’s body against Kiza’s is a beacon. Kiza knows all about gravity and realises that it must be the most wretched lie ever because surely Jupiter’s careful hold is all that’s keeping her tied to the Earth. Kiza blinks, breathes deep.

“Some breeders… don’t do that, obviously. Like Dad’s breeder – she’s nice, a little kooky but that seems to be a thing with people who like Dad.” She swallows. Jupiter’s so close Kiza can feel her breath on her own mouth, on the hollow of her throat. “When splices have children with other splices, some parts of their psychology start to… become more prominent – if two predator splices have a child then you can bet anything that the kid won’t react well to people smiling – the bared teeth would confuse him. Stuff like that. And it becomes more and more obvious with each generation, until they start to lose human qualities. It’s called ‘going feral,’ and nobody even gives them the dubious title of humanity like they do for most splices, even if it’s disdainfully done.”

That’s definitely Jupiter’s head on Kiza’s shoulder. The world stops. Kiza’s own heart stops. And then Jupiter whispers, “Keep going.”

Kiza obeys. Her bones are limp like wet tea leaves. “There’s a code which all breeders must follow,” Kiza says, and that’s _definitely_ her voice trembling. “That’s why everyone said Caine was defective. A splice attacking an Entitled—things like that don’t just _happen_. Submission is a seed that grows from within – we’re stronger, faster than humans, and yet they still rule... because that’s what grows within _you_.” There’s bitterness in that thought, Kiza thinks hazily, an old pain like an open wound, but she can’t recall it in its entirety. Jupiter’s fingers are on the small of her back and that tiny touch is unmaking Kiza, peeling her skin to peer at her bones, examine all her secrets. “I’ve only ever heard of feral dominants,” Kiza continues. Her Majesty graces Kiza’s knee with a drifting touch that melts into nothingness. Kiza is liquid sugar. “So for the most part, we follow humans: the ones with the strongest will, the ones who were always meant to reign over _something_ —”

Jupiter’s mouth on hers. There are no words left to describe what’s it like—this goes beyond human reckoning, it’s the first spark of fire in the universe and the first drop of rain, a snowstorm blanketing every single kiss before this one, the roar of the ocean when the moon is at its wildest, the heavy breath before a bullet hits. It tastes like fruit and chocolate and Jupiter, and then Kiza’s lying down (how?) and Jupiter is looking at her (yes), just looking, face serious and a little thoughtful, her mouth quirked into the beginnings of a smile the same way a dimly-lit night sky is the beginning of sunrise.

“Kiza,” she says, infinitely gentle, “why is Stinger angry with me?”

Somehow, that’s what makes her falter. That kindness, which is unexpected from everyone in this world except her father – Jupiter doesn’t owe her anything, if she wanted she could take everything from Kiza and make her say _thank you_ after – Kiza’s eyes fill with tears – they glitter on her pale lashes like pearls sewn to a wedding veil – and she’d never call this feeling _sadness_ , exactly. It’s more like that moment before you get a shot, when you imagine the pain and it’s immense, unrealistically big, and then it happens—

Kiza says, as a tear falls into her hair: “My queen,” almost shy in her sincerity, “I have been conquered.” Jupiter kisses her cheek, her lips ghost over Kiza’s skin until they find her mouth.

—and it’s not nearly as awful as you’d thought.

* * *

The stars are beautiful, and so far being in love seems to mostly involve sex.

Jupiter unbuttons her shorts, draws a lazy circle on Kiza’s navel. They kiss, and it’s still an experience – Kiza’s starting to doubt it will ever wear off, hot mouths and panting breaths and Jupiter’s ridiculously long lashes tickling Kiza’s cheek. In contrast with Jupiter’s hesitance to touching her between her legs, where she’s wet and wanting, Kiza’s breasts are grabbed with firmness.

“My pretty girl,” Jupiter says warmly, and Kiza melts. Her face flushes red, but she nods anyway – how could she not – nuzzles Jupiter’s collarbone. Her queen shushes her and pets her hair and then her hand sneaks into Kiza’s knickers and her legs fall open like a flower blooming, back arching. Jupiter laughs. “So responsive,” she murmurs. “Wonder if that’s a splice thing…?”

Kiza manages to find her voice. “Kinda.” Mostly it’s a Jupiter Ruler of All thing.

Jupiter makes a thoughtful noise. Then there’s not much time to be thoughtful because Jupiter’s finger finds her entrance and presses without quite penetrating her, just an awareness of foreign skin that has Kiza exhaling, eyes half-lidded. Another finger finds her clit and flicks – once, twice, and then stronger until it almost hurts except if it hurt Kiza wouldn’t be shuddering. Jupiter fumbles with Kiza’s shirt – Kiza can’t seem to find the strength to sit up and take it off, so Jupiter does almost all the work – and she’s not wearing a bra, so. Jupiter licks her breast curiously, slowly, and then Kiza wonders if she’s Jupiter’s first girl and almost dies she’s so close to exploding.

“Breathe,” Jupiter says slowly. Kiza obeys, acutely aware of Jupiter’s small hand on her ribs. Wonders what it’d look like if she took off her own skin, like a dress – if Jupiter’s hand would be imprinted on her bones. “Good girl.” And it gains her a kiss to the mouth, brief because then Jupiter’s occupied with Kiza’s breasts again – the valley in-between, the curve under. Jupiter sucks her right breast suddenly and Kiza’s hands feel empty, grasping grass that breaks easily.

A finger slips inside Kiza – deeper, then another finger is added. Kiza rocks, and Jupiter doesn’t tell her not to so she figures she’s allowed – but not too fast, Jupiter starts to move away when she gets too hasty, so Kiza slows down and Jupiter stays. _This_ , she thinks, feverish with desperation, half-crazy with longing, _this this this always this please yes_ — Jupiter lets her go and sits astride Kiza’s hips, and her wet hand is against Kiza’s lips – they open with barely a thought, automatically, she knows what Jupiter wants – Kiza licks the fingers clean meticulously.

“Take off your underwear,” Jupiter says, serene as anything, eyes black as night, and doesn’t get up. Kiza has to work around her, and her face ends up pressed against Jupiter’s breast – can hear her heartbeat, and Kiza’s in love, she’s so in love, that one of her legs is still stuck in her white knickers when her arms come around Jupiter and she just hugs her. Jupiter hugs her back, for a while, touching Kiza’s hair – coming out of its lazy braid and fluffy like a baby chicken’s fuzz – until Kiza’s done shaking. Then Jupiter makes her lie down again, and hooks firm fingers under Kiza’s knees – pushes her legs open – Kiza smiles despite herself, and then Jupiter’s going down on her and she doesn’t have enough concentration to smile about anything.

Kiza becomes sure she’s Jupiter’s first girl – just a touch of slowness when surety would give her quickness – so she’s vocal about what she likes (Jupiter going slow and deep with her fingers, sucking her clit, resting her cheek against Kiza’s thigh and giving small licks like a cat). It’s mind-blowingly good—Jupiter’s _quite_ a fast learner—and towards the end Jupiter does everything she likes so fast and so well that her orgasm is punched out of her, leaves her breathless, cleans her out like saltwater licking the inside of a seashell. Her toes curl. She doesn’t even have the energy to make grateful noises. Her whole body is covered in a fine sheen of sweat, like early-morning dew on grass. Kiza blinks slowly, dreamily, and between one breath and the next Jupiter’s face is close to hers. The kiss is sweet, soft: a hot breeze on a summer day.

“I like you so much,” Jupiter says, low and honest, and Kiza’s sleepy breathing stutters – inhales – curls against Jupiter.

“Your Majesty,” is all she answers, because it means exactly what she wants to convey.

The next morning it feels like a dream. Kiza looks at herself in the bathroom mirror, and beside a bruised knee that she can’t fathom how she got there’s no visible difference. For one thing, Kiza’s never that lucky — _I like you so much_ — and for another, Earth has antiquated romantic dynamics. Jupiter just wouldn’t do anything she considers a blatant betrayal of Caine’s trust. Kiza thinks about Caine and the usual feelings appear: fondness, exasperation, a faint thread of worry because he’s a man and men just don’t make a bit of sense, let’s not even talk about wolves. Kiza’s heard of jealousy and the closest she’s ever come to it is when her biggest competitor in the whole dealing rubbish thing —a waifish boy with blue hair that sticks straight up— manages to score a good client (it lasts like two seconds, and afterwards she feels contempt).

“You had sex with a queen,” she says, staring at the girl in the mirror. Her breasts feel tender, and she squeezes experimentally. A jolt of something like pain but not quite exactly navigates her insides and her pupils widen, like ink spilling on paper. “Wow, okay…” She sits on the closed toilet lid and opens her legs: touches her inner thighs – a burning throb – slips her fingers inside herself. She’s already wet, and she slips another finger – can _feel_ herself dilating. Adds another, until she’s full enough even though she knows she could take more, and thinks about Jupiter and her dark hair and her golden skin and she’s coming so fast it’s — she’s coming _a lot_ — it’s the most confused orgasm of Kiza’s life.

Her brain keeps going _what?_ for a full ten seconds after.

Her Dad knocks on the door. “Kiza? You okay in there?”

“Yes,” Kiza yells. “Don’t come in if you want to be able to look me in the eye again.”

Her Dad says: “God damn it—”

She can hear him scrambling away, and despite everything – it makes her laugh out loud. Kiza hasn’t ever been one to cry over spilt milk. Her body seems to be in a constant state of hopefulness, which has apparently been brought by the attentions of a queen – it’s not so bad, she thinks, and touches herself again. Throbs around her fingers, and even though she just came there’s no jerky twitchiness as a warning to give herself a moment – she merely dilates further, and then she’s got four fingers up her pussy and comes the way a wave reaches the beach: ripped apart by its own passions, dissolving into foam. She’s so wet when she manages to stand up a few minutes later it runs down her knees like she just came out of a bath. Masturbation hasn’t helped matters – her body aches sweetly, her breasts are heavy with loneliness, half-melting, and all-burning.

This is a bit of a situation.

Because she doesn’t know what else to do, she takes a cold shower, washes her hair and then dresses in a flirty black sundress. Because it’s Kiza, it has a print of cute yellow bees. She brushes her hair, goes downstairs and drinks a full litre of water. It’s not like she thinks it’ll help, but it can’t _hurt_ , either. Or it could but that would be just unbelievably ridiculous, Kiza wouldn’t allow a world like that to exist, so there.

She can hear Dad skulking around somewhere – out of sight, so she won’t get funny ideas like asking him about splice biology, mating drive, heat cycles or (all known gods forbid) _menstruation_. Nobody can blame her for the slightly mocking tone of voice when she shouts as goodbye: “I’m going out to do stuff!” That’s properly vague, right? And because she’s wicked: “Don’t wait up for me, Dad!”

The resulting faraway crash warms her heart.

There’s no other choice than biking to the nearest town, a place so tiny that sometimes people forget to add it to maps. Kiza leaves her bicycle with a friend and then goes to the bus stop, where she makes idle chatter with a middle aged woman whose hair is an explosive shade of red that came out of a bottle while they wait for the bus. Her name is Rosalind and she’s a recently retired lawyer who’s backpacking through the country because she decided she needed at least _one_ adventure before she turned sixty and had to start baking pies for her neighbourhood’s children.

“Don’t you have your own kids?” Kiza asks curiously. They’re sharing a cheap cherry Popsicle and her mouth sparks, pleasantly cold.

“No way,” Rosalind says. “One time I forgot the dog when I took it out for a walk. I’m just not qualified.” Looks at the Popsicle. “This tastes like childhood.”

“I have a friend who’s got a dog,” Kiza tells her, decidedly not smiling. “The unquestioned worship is nice.”

“That’s why I got a divorce,” Rosalind says. “I’m too old for worship. I want war.”

They sit together in the bus, and when they exchange phone numbers Rosalind leans close to Kiza and whispers luck in her ear: “I know that feverish look, Kiza girl. You’re crazy in love, aren’t you?”

“Burning up,” Kiza whispers back, and carries the smell of Rosalind’s fire engine red hair all the way to the wonderful city of Chicago. It kinda makes her think about her mother, in the way lightning storms make you think of freedom.

Here’s the thing about cities: they’re savage, like blind diseased whores, but so is love – that’s just passion. There are only so many ways in which humanity expresses its wanting, opens the red-painted mouth filled with teeth sharp as needles and blinks the kind eyes of a tired animal. Kiza likes the grass and the smell of wet dirt, adores the quiet of your own heartbeat and the chirp of a cricket, but she also enjoys the lights and the noise and the quick rush of people going about their business like busy bees. Best of all she likes the reflection of the sun in the water of Lake Michigan, a false sky, she thinks, with false glimmering stars. It suits Jupiter, she decides – it’s easy to imagine her in in every corner. The rhythm of the streets it’s the same as her laughter. This is her home, the way Kiza’s rickety, bee-invaded house is hers.

Since she doesn’t know where Jupiter lives, she goes to Caine’s. She’s been there before because her father wanted to make sure Caine wasn’t living in squalor – by a soldier’s standard he isn’t. Apparently the pathetic lump of concrete and wide windows is called a loft, which is what Kiza supposes single men call their rooms when they don’t want to bother with walls separating the fridge from the bedroom (though it’s true there’s wisdom in this). It’s on the seventeenth floor, and Kiza prefers stairs, so it takes a while. She’s not even winded by the time she reaches her destination – there’s a soft underlining of discomfort under her bones, true, but it’s just because her body’s starting to wake up, it spent so much time half-asleep to avoid the pain. She’s smiling to herself when she raises her hand to knock – and then the door opens, and Caine looks at her.

You want to know a secret? Kiza knew about families of choice long before she started to watch crappy sitcoms at two in the morning because she felt lonely and her father was immensely sad and she didn’t know how to make friends with Earth children – when she was a chubby-cheeked child with big lambent eyes he helped her get up every time she fell, kissed her skinned knees, held her hand after a nightmare. In the Legion those who bleed together are brothers. Kiza loves him the way she loves the buzz of bees at night: she can’t remember a moment when it hasn’t been true.

“Hello,” Kiza says.

“Your mouth is red,” Caine says.

“Popsicle,” Kiza explains. “The lipstick of the poor.”

Turns out he’s going out to shop for groceries. Legion soldiers are woefully unprepared for civilian life, because most of them are accepted very young, and then they die. When someone mentions retirement they look blank. Kiza thinks gleefully _I’ve got to watch this_ and kindly offers to accompany him, links her arm with his and knows it’s okay because he’s relaxed under her touch. They don’t talk as they walk – Caine is more the strong and silent type, which secretly Kiza thinks developed as a way of protecting his feelings since he’s such an obvious puppy when he’s said more than two words, and she doesn’t mind obliging.

The supermarket is cool and there’s lift music coming from somewhere—Kiza hums under her breath—and she’s got to bite her lip when Caine pulls a carefully folded shopping list from the back pocket of his jeans, which quite clearly Jupiter must have picked. (Not that there’s anything _wrong_ with leather but everyone has some funny ideas about those who wear that sort of clothes, so it’s for the best, really.) There are supremely mundane things in it, like eggs and milk and bread.

Kiza wonders if he Googled _how to be a normal person_. “There’s not any cake on the list,” she says thoughtfully.

Caine pauses, unsure. “Should there be?”

Poor lost soul. “Well, yeah. Maybe some biscuits? Chocolate cereal, the crunchy kind. Snickers bars. And fruit,” she says. “There isn’t any fruit on the list either. Jupiter likes melons.”

He looks at her out of the corner of his eye, and doesn’t say a word. Kiza dutifully picks up the boring stuff like rice and pasta, and afterwards, cheerfully, chocolate chip cookies, butter biscuits and crisps, plus a six-pack of Minute Maid (orange flavoured, this isn’t rocket science), apples, pears, seedless grapes and three melons. Caine continues to wear his best bemused expression, which looks more or less like a scientist staring at a platypus.

“Want to choose the cake?” Kiza asks, and even she can’t tell if she’s being nice or mean.

After pondering it for five whole minutes, he chooses chocolate fudge with cheesecake icing. Kiza bites back a sigh.

“Chocolate fudge is a good choice,” she lectures. “But well, cheesecake icing?”

He’s got that deer frozen in front of the headlights face.

“It’s not really icing, Caine,” she says. “I mean red velvet cheesecake is delicious but cheesecake icing? Who’s going to fall for that except an amateur like you? You know what, let’s start with something simple… Let’s choose apple dumplings.”

He seems a little down after that, so she lets him push the cart. As far as Kiza’s concerned people who don’t cheer up by pushing the supermarket cart are weak. He carries most of the heavy stuff on the way back, but allows her the delicate breakables like eggs and juice, the warm bread and the apple dumplings, and she tells him about Dad while they walk, his head bent towards her in silent attentiveness, she tells him an outrageous story about staying five hours in a raft with a blue-haired kid which happens to be true – the lenient quirk of his mouth says he doesn’t believe a word – and then she tells him about the space rollerblading and the field and the fireflies, and the branch breaking in a winter forest—

She tells him, “I’ve seen the face of god, and I’ve fallen in love,” and he opens the door of his loft and a barefoot Jupiter stops in her tracks, holding one of her shoes in a slim hand.

They stare at each other for a long moment that stretches, sticky like the breath between two heartbeats – and then Kiza says, “We’ve got apple dumplings.”

“Cool,” says Jupiter, and then seems to freeze inside her own insecurity. Kiza thinks about the cold creep of fear licking the inside of her throat and making her knees weak and wants to crowd Jupiter until they’re against a bed or a wall, wants to kiss the pretty hollow of her throat and tell her a hundred kind lies so this won’t ever happen again – but Caine brushes the small of her back and with one glance they agree he’ll take care of it. Kiza bites her lip and nods.

“I’ll just go drop this off, then,” Kiza says peacefully, perfectly capable of taking Caine’s share of the plastic bags as well as her own. Marches with a little skip in her step. Here she is, cutting her own heart with a rusty knife and offering it in a silver plate, and the only thing she wants more than a kiss is Jupiter accepting her gift and squeezing her most vulnerable part oh-so-carefully. Kiza thinks there’s danger in trust, always, like making love with a beast.

She opens the ‘fridge and stares at the empty shelves. That’s okay because Kiza’s awfully brave.

Even though she busies herself taking the food out of the bags with as much rustling as she possibly can, she still hears snippets of their conversation. Glances over her shoulders and sees that they’ve moved closer to the wall-window: the noon light drips over them like liquid gold. Caine’s head is low, listening as Jupiter explains something quickly and with much fluster, blushing so lovely and so pink her mouth goes deliciously red – he smiles at her, gentle like the morning sun, and Kiza’s wild heart kicks; the _I love you_ inside it throbs like an open wound.

“… don’t want you to think…”

“… never, ever hurt you…”

“… special, she’s – I’m sorry if I—”

“… understand if you want…”

“… love you, but…”

“… her.”

Kiza closes the fridge with a soft kick, gathers all the plastic bags and drops them in the rubbish bin. _Earthsies_ , she thinks tiredly. Typical – Kiza manages to find herself a paramour of royal blood and with more nerve than good sense (just the way she likes them), and it’s got to be someone with romantic notions more old-fashioned than petrol. She walks to them and links her arm with Caine’s, leaving her other hand bare and lonely, wanting to touch Jupiter but knowing it’d only make her feel worse. Jupiter looks at Kiza like she’s forcing herself to hold her eyes and something inside Kiza curls up, hurt.

“It’s different for us,” Kiza tries to explain. “It’s fine if you – if you want us both, it’s fine.”

“Why?” Jupiter asks bitterly, her lovely eyes widening with frustration. “Because I’m the – the Recurrence of a dead space queen?” (Kiza bites her smile back). “That’s just not right – to be honest, just because someone says I can do whatever the heck I want it doesn’t mean I _should_ —”

“Not like that,” Kiza says, startled into laughter despite herself. “I mean, yeah, you could do that based on your station alone. But when I say it’s different for _us_ , I’m not talking about – um – space people.” It works to makes things clearer, she supposes. It also makes her feel hot with fondness. “I mean that splices don’t have the same dynamics in intimate relationships. I call you my queen not because you’re an Entitled, but because you have conquered me.” Lowers her lashes, suddenly shy, and knocks her forehead against Caine’s arm. “I am yours, for as long as you want me.”

Jupiter hesitates, still looking suspicious. “Caine?”

Caine rubs the nape of his neck. “There were no protocols regarding this situation in the Legion,” he says, almost sheepish – Kiza cracks up. “Monogamy is… not as common between splices,” he admits after a moment, sounding like he’s picking his words carefully. “People like you are called many words – queen, alpha, it doesn’t matter. We belong only to you, but you can have as many lovers as you wish. If it pleases Your Majesty,” he adds sweetly, “then it pleases me.”

Jupiter covers her face with her hands. “I don’t want anyone else,” she says, and it comes out muffled but understandable. “I don’t think I’d survive it, either. This is already giving me a heart attack.”

Kiza stares at the tense line of her shoulders and wants to fuck her until she’s nothing but limp pleasure on the floor, wants to hold her hand and kiss her mouth. Takes a helpless step closer and hugs her. Jupiter is soft and warm in her arms and Kiza noses the spot below her ear, feeling the rapid thrum of her pulse. Licks her shyly. Jupiter doesn’t resist, but she doesn’t answer either.

Kiza says: “I love you quite madly. Don’t send me away…” And she kneels, because one must worship gods with a proper amount of fear shadowing the soul. Looks at Jupiter’s surprised face and holds up her hands. “I will be strong for you, I will be weak for you. If you wish to break me I shall allow it. I will follow you always, wherever you go – I will kill and lie and thieve for you – I know, I know you don’t love me like him but…,” her eyes fill with tears that she tries to swallow. They cut her like knives. “Please, please – allow me to stay…”

Here’s the thing: Jupiter doesn’t have to say yes.

Queens can do whatever they want, wherever they wish, and if it isn’t Jupiter’s inclination to have Kiza then she’s got to stand up and walk down all the stairs and go home, where she will have to stay still and quiet so the broken pieces of glass inside her don’t chime a ringing note of pain. Splices don’t fall out of love, that’s not how it happens, loyalty is in her genes quite literally – this is not a sorrow that will pass. Kiza looks inside herself and the bruise of love blooms pale purple, painful to gaze at and absolutely indispensable. This is Kiza two days ago: golden-haired, wild-hearted, on her own. This is Kiza now: flushed red with wanting and hurting everywhere with the longing for belonging like a second shadow.

Jupiter sighs deeply.

Kiza tenses like an animal ready to die.

“What do you mean, I don’t love you like him?” Jupiter says.

Kiza blinks dumbly. “I—”

“Of course I don’t,” she says. “You’re a different person. A completely different person.”

Kiza opens her mouth, and genius comes out: “Ah.”

“But you’re special,” says Jupiter. She’s looking straight into Kiza’s eyes and her cheekbones are dusted with red but she isn’t looking away, Kiza wants to stay like this forever, _pay attention to me yes yes please I want you always_. “You are special, alright? Don’t say stuff like that – like… like one of you is more important than the other.” Purses her lips. Kiza lowers her head automatically. “Get up,” Jupiter says. “I don’t remember this floor as being particularly comfortable.”

Kiza gets up. Caine stands close enough that they touch elbows and in his kindness she finds comfort – he’s watching Jupiter closely, his face impassive in that way that means he doesn’t want to influence her position. Kiza is silently aware of how much power they have over Jupiter; they’re her gate and her bridge to space. _Some paths must be walked carefully_ , she thinks, and wipes her eyes – no tears have fallen but she feels shaky like she’s been carved open and sewed clumsily back together. Caine holds her hand and they stand together while Jupiter crosses her arms and stares out the window, brow furrowed, mouth slightly sulky.

“Okay,” Jupiter says, and clears her throat: “Okay. I – I know it’s different for you. I believe you. I’m just worried that, even if I was hurting you, you wouldn’t tell me, because of some knuckleheaded reason.”

“I’m not a knucklehead,” Kiza says, surprised into defensiveness.

Caine laughs.

Jupiter smiles despite herself – a tiny smile that nonetheless fills Kiza with sunshine. “I – I want to try,” she says – shy and quiet, and glances at them with those lovely eyes like a bewitching dream and Kiza steps close to her and kisses the pretty red mouth and her blood is on fire and Kiza wants to be in love always. After Kiza dies, she knows, if she ever Recurrences, she’d fall in love with a slim sloe-eyed girl with silky dark hair and the prettiest smile this side of the galaxy – again and again. (Some things grow from within.)

“Thank you,” Kiza says, hugging her tight and burying her face in Jupiter’s hair. “Thank you. I’ll be good, I promise. I’ll be really good.”

Jupiter seems a bit flustered for a second before she returns the embrace. Kiza knows she’s looking at Caine over her shoulder, those lashes fluttering uncertainly – knows the exact moment when Caine shifts closer because she can hear the thump of his boots against the floor.

He says, “Your Majesty,” and Jupiter smiles.

“He’s my family,” Kiza says, low. “Do you understand? Anything I have, anything at all, is his as well. He is my brother – he is my own self – I know it’s complicated. I know. But you have to understand. I love you, and he loves you – and we love each other in a different way, and it’s quite fantastic with him if you keep us both.”

“How do you know?” Jupiter says, her voice as hushed as Kiza’s. They stand closer, until Jupiter’s knees knock into Kiza’s, until her shoes bump Jupiter’s bare feet and it still isn’t enough. “How can I be sure? Kiza, I – I know how you feel—,” her face goes red, and Kiza hides a smirk, “and I – I want you to know, I also… I feel like that about you as well.” Takes a deep breath. “But Caine – Caine is important, he is the first person who’s ever made me feel like I’m – like I’m perfectly myself, and I – I don’t want to hurt him—”

Like he isn’t standing six inches away from them, Kiza says: “You won’t. You don’t have to worry about that. I won’t let you – I love him too – we will be happy, okay? We’ll be so happy. You were born to rule us, and we were born to follow you. It’s okay. It’s okay.”

Jupiter lets her go to kiss Caine, which Kiza reckons is fair because she’s been copping a feel for quite a while, and something hungry and burning sparks in her belly when she sees them touching each other so carefully, the slick sound when they come apart, the kindness of Jupiter’s hands – Kiza thinks she’s so happy she might seriously die because she’s reached the pinnacle of her existence. Caine rubs his cheek against her hair, and Jupiter goes liquid.

Kiza thinks about her queen eating her heart like a shiny red apple, juice trickling down her throat, and fingers her skirt impatiently. “Now that all the drama’s out of the way,” she says, and smiles all wicked and triumphant, “let’s go to bed and fuck the hell out of each other.”


End file.
